


Polishing Swords

by acornsandravens



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Double Entendre, F/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acornsandravens/pseuds/acornsandravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His blankets were shoved down around his knees, and he was in bed with his shirt off and his eyes closed. But he was definitely not sleeping."</p>
<p>Arya accidentally spies on Gendry and she can't seem to stop thinking about it afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polishing Swords

**Author's Note:**

> "Don't he like girls?"  
> Arya shrugged. "He's just stupid. He likes to polish helmets and beat on swords with hammers."- A Storm of Swords, George R.R. Martin

 

Arya stuck her head out over the edge of the loft, making sure Gendry was asleep before she climbed down. He always complained about her coming and going all the time. Best he didn’t know about it.

Grabbing the wooden planks, she stretched out cautiously so she could see his bed below.

His blankets were shoved down around his knees, and he was in bed with his shirt off and his eyes closed. But he was definitely  _not_  sleeping, and Arya nearly tumbled from the ceiling when she realized his hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking himself while he worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

Arya wasn’t stupid. She had a lot of brothers and Theon had always been crude, never mind that she spent the latter half of her childhood almost exclusively around adult men. She knew that this was a perfectly usual activity.  _But this was Gendry_ , her mind protested. Gendry still went behind trees to piss, muttered and blushed around every woman he met and looked at his big feet instead of meeting their eyes. Gendry was  _hopeless_.

He certainly seemed to know what he was doing, though, she thought. The muscles in his big arms rippled when his pace increased, and he sucked in a breath.

He’d grown up quite a bit since she’d peeked at his cock a time (or twelve) when he used to piss in ditches in front of her, before he started insisting she was a lady and gone to find a tree instead. He’d  _grown up_  all over, apparently. His cock rose from a tidy nest of dark hair and stood straight and long, not anything like the limp strange looking things she had seen before. It was not unpleasant to look at, she decided, not like the tales she’d heard of the strange things between men’s legs, the dire warnings about the pain they caused, the ruin, the  _children_.

The way his fingers curled around the middle made sent a strange frisson of energy through her. She wondered what it would feel like if that was her hand on him, moving up and down and running her thumb over the flushed head to flick away the bead of moisture that was shining wetly in the firelight. She could almost imagine the way the skin would feel on her palm, and the way he’d thrust up into her hands like he was doing to his own, his muscles flexing and contracting, hips bucking.

Arya didn’t think she would be quite so bold as he was- it looked like he was trying to choke the life out of it.

Watching him made her  _warm_. She needed to press her thighs together, rub away the ache between them. But if she moved he might hear her, and she was certain if he knew that she had seen him he’d never speak to her again out of embarrassment. So she studied his face, since that wasn’t quite as wicked as staring at his cock. She saw his face all the time.

But not like  _that_. His heavy lashes fluttered open and then he’d close them again an instant later, hiding the dark, almost glassy look in his eyes. His lips would part on a harsh intake of breath, and she’d see a flash of tooth when his tongue darted out to wet them, slow and lazy. There was a certain determined air of desperation about his expression, yearning and satisfied all at once.

She hadn’t nearly finished her study of him when his face screwed up and his movements became uneven, and her eyes darted lower again in spite of her intentions, pulling her head back a bit just to be sure she was still hidden. With his teeth gritted, he tightened his grasp on the head of his cock and then his movements gentled suddenly. The wrinkles in his forehead disappeared and he came in a spurt of white, his release laying in a pool on his stomach, moving up and down with every great breath he took from the exertion.

Arya stared at it, wide-eyed. Her own breath came out in a whoosh, and she realized from the ache in her jaw that she had clenched it just as he had. He certainly looked more relaxed than she felt, though, sprawled out in his bed with his cock resting near the rise of his hip bone, still pink and wet and half hard. Arya felt like she’d been caught unawares in a burst of wildfire.

She waited until he finished cleaning himself off and pulled his blankets up over himself before she attempted to crawl back to her own bed. It took her twice as long as usual to reach her mat on the floor, but she couldn’t bear for him to discover her awake. She was sure her expression would betray that she had just watched him have a go at himself, as her eyebrows felt like they had become permanently stuck in a surprised arc. She felt a bit giddy, a knot of something that felt like tension settled low in her middle, and her fingers were aching from where she had gripped the wooden floorboards without realizing it.

_How often did it get all big and hard like that? How often did he touch himself the way that he had? What did he think about when he did it?_  The words echoed in her head the way her list once had while she struggled to fall asleep. They were stupid and naïve questions for a girl- no,  _woman-_  of her age to have. She ought to have been wedded and bedded by now, with all the questions answered and accounted for and not involving Gendry and definitely not keeping her awake at night.

She slid out of bed and darted outside before he had even started to stir in the early dawn hours. She spent her day trying not to think about  _it_  and failing, and avoided Gendry with a singular focus. The second night sleep had come no easier because she couldn’t stop wondering if he was doing it again, if she could maybe peek down on him again and see, just to make sure. Instead she tugged on her blankets and tossed and turned and refused to leave her bed for anything.

Gendry hadn’t noticed anything unusual, or at least he was acting if he hadn’t. But she knew if she kept avoiding him that he’d wonder the cause, especially since they had killed a tough old hen that had stopped giving eggs and the chicken had been roasting on a spit for hours, golden and crackling over the fire. If she didn’t follow her nose to the table he was sure to know something was wrong.

She ate her meal without tasting it, nodding and agreeing with what Gendry said without really hearing it. He looked at her strangely when she met his gaze, and she wondered in horror what she had agreed to when she hadn’t been listening. It might have been anything.

She still had half her food in front of her when he had already cleaned his bowl and got out his work, and the sword he was making nearly landed in her wine when he laid it out on the table, oblivious to being in her space. He’d been fiddling with it for weeks now, hammering and grinding and now polishing it to a sheen until he was satisfied with the edge and the appearance. It was his current fascination.

Gendry was Arya’s current fascination.

Usually Arya liked to watch him work. He was fast on his way to becoming a master smith, and she admired his skill and liked to learn how to maintain her own blades. But tonight when he ran his thumb down the edge with the polishing compound, all she could see was the way his thumb had slid over the head of his cock with the same intensity.

She stared at him without realizing it was what she was doing.  _Up and down, long easy strokes, slow this time instead of fast and racing to a climax. Muscles in his arm bunching, flexing, working, grasping his length and sliding into his fist. Her lips on his this time when he came-_

“Would you like to give me a hand?”

“What?” she squeaked, startled.

Gendry waved the cloth in his hand in her direction. “You looked like you might like to give it a try. You’ve been watching me awfully close.”

“Oh. No, no, I couldn’t. I’d lose a finger.” she stammered.

He rolled his eyes. “Arya, no one knows their way around a sword like you do. Look, I’ll show you.”

_Show me._

“No!” she shouted decisively, and Gendry flinched in surprise.

“Fine, fine. Just watch how I do it, then, I don’t care.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Do you feel a fever?-”

She was certain her face was  _on fire_.

 “-you’re awfully red.”

“Just leave it, Gendry.” she told him, climbing her ladder to get away from her thoughts.

For once, he did.

~

He couldn’t sleep. It was one of those nights when his chest ached for no good reason and his bed felt empty. He felt a bit empty, deflated. He sighed and rolled over the other way, screwed his eyes shut and tried to focus on Arya’s snoring. Only there wasn’t any, and he knows from experience that when Arya can’t sleep it never bodes well for him sleeping, either.

He almost called out her name but then he listened, really listened, to the sounds from his loft. Her breath was jagged and harsh in the quiet of night, almost like when she woke herself thrashing from a nightmare. Only this had a definite rhythm that her dreaming didn’t, the sound of her mattress rustling and a slight wooden creaking when she shifted her weight, a tempo of her hips lifting and settling back into place.

It was a recognizable set of sounds.

_Gods, let her be alone up there_. She’d been gone so much lately and barely spoke to him when she was around. Someone had clearly been occupying her time. She was old enough to have a lover, some young farm boy with crooked teeth and rough, roaming hands. Gendry clenched his pillow so tightly at the thought that a seam split and he was left holding a fistful of down feathers.

Above him she growled low in frustration, and the sound shot straight to his cock. They’re ridiculous, the two of them. He’s hard as a maypole, and he feels like his soul is going to tear in two if he has to lay there and listen to her touch herself, like he might die if he doesn’t climb that ladder and just grab her and kiss her and-

“Gendry? Are you awake?”

He must be dreaming, he thinks. “Yes. I’m right here.”

They meet in the middle, his feet on the bottom rungs of the ladder and her bare shoulders sticking out over the edge of the loft. Gendry thinks she’s never looked quite so beautiful with her hair hanging in a messy curtain around her face, and her kiss is better than he’d ever imagined. Even upside down.

“Stop, Gendry, you’re going to fall. I’m going to fall. Someone is going to die.” she gasps after a moment, tearing away from his lips. Arya has a point- a ladder isn’t the best place for kissing.

He doesn’t know if they’re going up or down, but they land together in a heap and everything that had been one is suddenly two, or perhaps the other way around. Hands that seemed to know their respective bodies so well are suddenly strangers. It feels like he’s wearing a set of gauntlets on backward as he tries to undo the simple ties on her nightclothes, fumbling with his eagerness and nerves. Arya fares no better and finally she just shoves his breeches down, palming his cock with a moan that he’s pleased to have been the cause of.

She’s wet. He’d like to take the credit for that, too, but he knew what she’d been doing up in his loft, and so it isn’t until he finds the little mysterious knot between her legs with his thumb and rubs it until she twists and fights and peaks with a shout that he believes he’s actually managed to do it. When she stops shaking her eyes are wilder than even her mussed hair, and she wraps her hand around him with such determination that he’s worried for a moment. But Arya is gentle and strokes him thoughtfully, with her hand just at the middle where he likes it and her fingers pressing just tight enough. It’s not fair that he’s had years to perfect his skills and yet her one small, soft (she’d say they were rough, but he begged to differ) hand feels better than his ever have, and when she slides her thumb across the tip of his cock his eyes roll back in his head with the pleasure of it. He’s saying her name over and over again, helplessly, raising his hips for her and thinking he’s going to embarrass himself when she grabs his shoulder, throws her leg across his lap and sinks down onto him.

Gods save him, he holds her waist and helps her do it and they’re fucking on the floor before he has time to realize what’s happened or figure out how, precisely, he’s gone from innocently (it’s a relative term, he supposes) laying in his bed to somehow being inside of Arya, tight, hot, slick, wonderful Arya, who has always been a quick learner. She is gasping for air like a drowning person might, her fingers buried between their two bodies and touching both of them in turn; sliding over his length, feeling him as he disappears inside of her.

“Let me,” he says, or thinks he manages to say it, his tongue is thick and she’s sucking on it besides. His hands are bigger and she has to spread wide to accommodate him, but she lets her head fall back and her mouth hang open when he finds what he’s looking for. He kisses her neck, where the soft white skin joins with her shoulder and she sighs, her hips catching and shuddering unsteadily. She wraps her arm around him and he feels her fingers dig into his back, clutching at him while he does his best to keep up.

“There. Just-- like that,” she gasps, the tremor in her voice inebriating and dangerously stimulating. He wants to grab hold of her arse and lose himself inside of her _right now_ but he doesn’t dare stop moving or still his fingers because he can feel that she’s close and the protesting of his cramping muscles and aching cock doesn’t matter because she’s _begging_.

Her movements lose their finesse another moment later, her soft moans reaching a plaintive crescendo. It is all he can do to grab hold of her and thrust upwards helplessly as she comes in a delicious, grasping heat that has him spending inside of her with such force that he’s sure he’ll never be able to move from the floor again and will have to learn how to smith from the ground.

They collapse together on the sooty dirt floor of the forge, her weight comfortable on top of him. “That’s much better than what I’ve been doing by myself,” Arya admits when she’s caught her breath, her head resting on his chest. “You make it look much easier than it really is.”

Somehow even still inside of her with his seed and her wetness trickling onto his belly he has retained the ability to blush. He  _knew_  he’d heard something. “You shouldn’t sneak around at night,” he scolds her drowsily.

“I won’t,” she promises with a wicked smile. “Just sneak me into your bed, blacksmith, and I’ll stay there.”

 


End file.
